A
frequent and justified complaint of "women of a certain age" is the
fact that, at some point in the maturing process, they become invisible. It is
particularly the regret of those for whom looking good, being admired and
courted, however innocently, was a customary experience of youth. Those who
used, upon entering the proverbial room, to be taken note of and hopefully
spoken to. In other words, those who neither enjoyed nor preferred the
anonymity of being one of the crowd.
The day
comes, for most of us, when entering a room, from the restaurant, to the Future
Shop, to the garage, ceases to be a comfortable activity. Catching
the eye of the waiter, of the sales person, of the mechanic, be they man or
woman, becomes a challenge. After a few such trials, the woman undergoing them
finally, painfully realizes she has entered the ranks of the invisible. It
takes another few years to actually get used to this condition and thoroughly
forget how things used to be. Fortunately this act of forgetting is quite
thorough, a process of amnesia smoothing over the pleasures one secretly
harbored when one was taken note of.
There is
one parallel experience to that of having a remarkable or remarked exterior
appearance. It is that of speaking with an accent. That is, speaking with some
approximation the language of the land, and particularly of that land
immigrants have somehow chosen to avoid. That is true especially if one is not
a visible minority. For her the surprise of the addressee shows its full weight. Yet the comparison between striking appearance and accented
speech stops here. For nothing pleasant can emanate from people who seem to
suffer physically when exposed to words pronounced in a different manner than
the one they are used to.
One of my
aunts, whose 92 birthday is tomorrow, warned my father early. I was probably
not yet 14 when she told my father his daughter liked to be looked at. Not that
he needed warning. Curiously enough though, my father, the very soul of Balkan paternal rigor, was not
exactly displeased with this form of theatricality. While his right of veto was
brought to bear upon most, if not all things a 14 year old girl would like to
do, he was not against miniskirts, high platform shoes, light blue sunglasses
which he himself procured for me on the black market. He took some pride in
those jealous gazes coming in my direction from one and all. And since he
allowed for so few liberties, I grabbed this one with both hands and run with
it.
During my
now customary visits to Toronto, I like to take the subway and people watch.
The other day a woman let me know she liked my gloves. She then looked me over
and said my glasses were to her liking also, as well as my skirt. Finally, the
whole outfit agreed with her esthetic judgement. Had I done that on purpose?
Yes, I said, although caught by surprise by a question which normally would
have me burst out laughing. Of course I had done it on purpose. All right, she
retorted, it was all right to do such things. Her meaning, I suppose, that it
was all right to spend one's time thinking about matters of little import like these.
From the
corner of my eye I appraised her after, trying to figure her out too. About my
age, maybe a bit older, carefully but conservatively dressed. It is almost a
rule, that I get compliments from conservatively attired women, those who let
me know, one way or another, that they would like to take such
liberties as I do with their outward appearance, but of course cannot. For
serious people with problems on their mind, it is out of question.
A few minutes
later, still intrigued, she came back asking where I had bought those gloves I was wearing. Brown with white polka dots, driving gloves. Was I
using them for driving? Yes. They come from Boston. And the skirt?
It is German. The glasses? They're French, but I bought them right here in
Toronto. All these items come from somewhere, of course, it used to be a habit
of mine, in the days when I was traveling, to buy certain things which would remind me
of the pleasure of that particular voyage. (I will not say that particular
conference, although that may be true too.) Right, she finished, while stepping
out the door of the train, but Boston, which she had visited a long time ago,
was a city she did not like. People there were not friendly, maybe because of
ethnic rifts.
I
refrained from analyzing this last remark and in the evening, looking at the
events of the day, I texted Colin and asked why it was that women only declared
their liking for my outward appearance and not men? Colin's answer: men
were afraid such a gesture would be taken for an uncalled for advance.
The next
day I took the train in the opposite direction. I was carrying some bags and
when a seat presented itself I took it quickly. As soon as I sat down the man
to my right looked me straight in the eye, smiled and said something, at the
same time as I smiled back and excused myself, calling the bag I was carrying
by its name: Leonidas chocolates. Because he was rather heavy set, I had
automatically taken for granted that he, of the kind smile, would like
chocolates.
Very soon
though I realized his comment had to do with my glasses. I thanked him and he
pursued: one has to acknowledge every day what one admires. In a beautiful turn
of phrase I unfortunately cannot quite reproduce. I felt fortunate to be his
object of admiration on this day and sat quiet and slightly mesmerized. He was
reading a book on loan from the library. Was casually dressed and did not have, as I said already, the body of
an ambitious young man, but rather, of a middle aged who spends many hours either
at a desk, or reading.
I could
not not expose to him, in a few words, the other day's conundrum. That, insofar
as chance encounters are concerned, for a long time now, and until I met him,
it had been women only who had given me the gift of a compliment. He answered right away,
as if prepared, and, with the same gentle yet quite more animated expression,
said simply that men were cowards. And added that my smile was even more
lovely than my glasses. After which his station came up, and we said good bye.
Yet, what
felt particularly good in these ephemeral encounters was the fact that neither
of these two strangers was surprised or befuddled to hear me speak as I do.
They did not retreat in shock upon hearing my speech, as if too close to the
mouth of a fire blower, reaction I have become accustomed to provoke
here in the Hastings county. Neither were they confused by the riddle of my
words. They understood what I said and were at ease with continuing the
conversation, I dare say even regretful to abandon it, without asking those
questions which people who do not befriend the immigrant species feel compelled
to ask. Like for instance: how come, that after more than thirty years in
Canada, you still have such a thick
accent?
Let us
say that the thick accent, and the unusual combination of disparate articles of
clothing, belong together. It has been somewhat of an awakening, to meet these
people who, in different ways, exercised their duty, compulsively or self-imposed,
to express admiration when an object engaged them. I have wondered whether I
myself could not follow the lesson of my unknown bookish friend, and try to do
the same as consistently as my courage will allow me.
